After their rough welcome in Dromstead, Santa and Bernard struck northward, away from the misty shores and wary townsfolk.  The path grew wilder as they left the beaten trails behind — winding through thick woodlands and open grassy plains under the cold stars. Reindeer herds watched curiously from distant knolls, and now and then, the flicker of fairy lights would dance across their path, though none dared approach.

By the third day, the travelers crested a low ridge and gazed down upon the forests of Lone Pine, nestled at the base of the Reindeer Fields.

“There,” Bernard said, pointing to a single massive pine tree rising above the rest, its trunk silvered with age and legend. "The Elves of Lone Pine are wise... and if anyone will listen, it is them."

As they approached the ancient tree, slim figures in green and brown cloaks melted out from the undergrowth. The Elves of Lone Pine were taller than Bernard, their features sharp and ageless, their eyes wary.

"You come from the south," said their leader, a slender Elf named Calindor, his bow slung loosely across his back.  "And you bring magic... or trouble."

Bernard bowed low, a gesture of respect. "We bring an idea."

At first, the Elves were cautious, speaking in whispers and frowns. They had heard of the disturbances in Dromstead.  Humans, they knew too well, could be as quick to fear as they were slow to understand.

But after much talk beside the fire — and after Santa shared salted herring from his chest and repaired a child's broken toy with his own carving knife — the atmosphere softened.

Under the starry sky, Santa stood and spoke, his voice carrying with the wind across the gathered Elves.

"I have seen what fear does to the heart," he said, "and I have seen what joy can undo. My dream is to kindle something greater than mere survival or suspicion. I want to bring a Spirit to this land — a spirit of giving without expectation, kindness without reason, and wonder without fear."

He paused, glancing around at the skeptical but curious faces.

"One night each year, we will celebrate this spirit.
We will give gifts, tell stories, light the darkest corners with laughter and light.
Not for gold. Not for glory.
Simply because it is right."

The clearing fell silent. A few Elves exchanged glances, eyebrows raised.

At last, Calindor spoke.  "Your words are noble, stranger. But your spirit will need a home."

The Elders of Lone Pine gathered that night. Their decision was cautious but supportive:

"If you seek to bring this spirit to all peoples — Elf, Human, Fairy, or Beast — then it must come from a place unclaimed, belonging to none yet welcoming all."

Calindor drew a rough map in the earth with a stick.
"In the center of Evela lies the coldest land — the place the ancients called the North Pole."

Bernard frowned. "It’s barren, frozen tundra. No one lives there."

"Precisely," Calindor said. "A new village, built from nothing but hope and work. A place where this Christmas Spirit can be rooted."

Santa grinned, the light of a thousand dreams beginning to glow behind his bright blue eyes.
"Then that's where we'll go."

At dawn, Santa and Bernard set out once more — this time accompanied by a small company of Elves. The leader, Calindor, was a cautious elf.  Lira was a bright-eyed elven craftswoman, loaded with a pack of tools and seeds. Fenril was a scout and hunter. Finally, Mera was a healer.

Together, they marched north across the Reindeer Fields, the green and gold grass waving like an endless sea beneath the cold sky.

Ahead of them lay a new future — and the first foundations of what would someday become Santa's Village... the beating heart of the Christmas Spirit.